Between The War

A Personal Commentary

Even though the War was
years away, we still cheered the men when they came back, as we had cheered
when they left to fight. Twenty of them there were from the village, my father
among them. Twenty tired men, old before their time.

We
stood there on the dusty road, with our bunting and our flags, and watched as
the army trucks appeared in the distance and rumbled to a halt at the edge of
the village. We cheered as the men jumped down from the trucks with their
kitbags and walked towards us. Wives ran to greet their husbands, and the
trucks left as mysteriously as they had first arrived, over a year ago.

My
father had grown one or two grey hairs before he left for the War, but when he
came back his hair was as white as snow. I was eight years old when he left,
nearly ten when he returned, but I held on to my mother's hand like a two-year
old as this terrifying stranger came down the road towards me.

At
first I was upset by the changes in my father and found it difficult to
understand how a man who had been so full of exuberance, so warm and loving,
could have changed so much. Physically he had aged almost ten years, he now
spoke rarely - and never with much emotion. The first few weeks were a trial
for me, before my father went back to his old job as editor of our local
newspaper. He immersed himself in his work, possibly in an attempt to forget
the ordeal he had been through, and we never saw much of him until the
evenings. Of course he had been paid well in gold, but that was small
consolation to my mother. I now realise she must have suffered greatly, seeing
the man she loved practically destroyed by the War. I, of course, with the
pragmatism of youth, welcomed the sudden rise in our standard of living, and
soon learned to live with the reality of my new father, so different to the
old, accepting (as children do) the incongruity of his suddenly advanced years.

I
was eighteen when he died; not of injuries sustained during the War, but from a
mild stroke, brought on (they said) from "nervous and mental shock".
I mourned him in my own way, but we had grown too far apart for me to shed
tears.

The
War finally began two days before my twentieth birthday. I still lived in the
village, having inherited the house after my mother remarried, and was now
editor of the same paper my father had founded twenty years before. The War is
being played out on foreign soil, so does not touch us as much as its future
echoes had when I was a child, but - due to my contacts among the journalistic
fraternity - I have managed to follow developments more closely than most.

It
is now six months into the War, and things seem to be going badly for our side.
This is old news to me. The men who came back from the War a decade ago had
been instructed not to speak of the events they had witnessed, but of course
many of them had. And what I have gleaned has been enough for me (and many
others like me) to map out the future course of the conflict.

Of
course none of what we know has ever been confirmed by the World Service. Even
I, in my semi-privileged position, could find no information other than what
the State will tell the populace. But I do know. All of us who live in
the village know - as do other communities across the land who sent their men
folk to fight (and some to die) in the future. We know that the War will rage
for the next nine years, and that a desperate State is even now using the
newly-discovered time-displacement technology to reach back into the recent past
and conscript our fathers into fighting for King and Country.

And
we also know - as does the State - that the War will ultimately be lost, no
matter what steps are taken. No matter how many infantrymen are drafted in from
a decade previous, the War will be lost, the Enemy will be magnanimous in
victory, and life will go on as before.

Except,
of course, for those unfortunates, sent back in time to pick up the remnants of
their shattered lives. Even as I pen these words - which I dare not try to have
printed, and which no-one save me will ever read - my father is alive and in
his prime, fighting on that foreign field, the best years of his life draining
away, and there is nothing I can do for him.

At least now I can grieve.

Write a Review
Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks,
Spacewarp

SandraHan1:
This story is very descriptive, with vivid scenes from the very beginning, which made for a good scene setting. I love the symbolism in names, such as “Naysayers”, “Hadd”, etc . The story itself is revolutionary, intriguing, emotional and exciting. I was very pleased to see that there is a happy ...

Ariel:
First book from the Author I've read, and am extremely impressed and very much satisfied that this story was a short-story, yet, filled with great writing, fantastic characters, and all I'd like is more, please. Malice, she is my favorite!!

NRF:
This was a very interesting story line, although the author did not go far enough in explaining the war and why some received special powers and some didn't. I really enjoyed this story and look forward to reading more of this author's writing.

Ding Fernando:
very nice read.so realistic you can hardly put it down,i really like the character so human despite posessing immortality and eternal youth.though i would prefer a better ending..i still love this novel and i am recommending it to all sci fi fans to give it a try .you will love it too!!

Chevonne Prinsloo:
I loved this book.. I didn't want to stop reading it! just my kind of book... I really love how the plot of the story carries along. I hope there are more books to follow after this one! I like the way she describes how Rogue is feeling and the way she shows the emotions going through Rogu. I als...

Pablo Rojas:
Love the story, at the end it is a western story, simple, yet giving hints and pieces of the situation that is happening all over ravencroft´s universe. easy to read and always keeping with the main stream story I want to keep reading about, Olafson´s adventures.

sujitha nair:
What's so distinct about this story was that it could easily be real.Praveena can be your classmate, neighbor or that girl you saw at the coffee shop today. The important decisions she makes and the dilemmas she faces, remind us of our own twisted lives.

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